Help Me Find The Right Way Up
by Saoirse Laochra
Summary: Clint Barton had scars -physical and mental- when Phil Coulson finds him at Attica State Penitentiary, and makes him an offer. An offer that -to be honest- Clint really is no position to refuse. Warnings for graphic mentions of past child abuse, past child sexual abuse, violence, forced drug use, PTSD, language and all around general angst. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

So... I'm a huge Avengers fan, and I've been working on this for a bit now. If you like, please review. I love reviews. : )

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><p>"You sure about this, Coulson?"<p>

Phil Coulson glanced over at Director Fury and nodded. "Of course, sir." As the prison alarms started blaring, Coulson shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Mostly."

They'd been sitting in the room designed for conjugal visits for about fifteen minutes, waiting for Prisoner 112909 to be brought in. The Attica Correctional Facility was a super-max, meaning super maximum security, one of the most notorious, and brutal prisons in the US.

"How old did you say this kid was?" Fury asked, looking at the bed in disgust.

"Twenty one, sir."

"And…"

"And… I think he could be one of the best field agents we've ever seen. His IQ is off the charts, his vision is closer to that of a of an eagle than human, and his marksmanship skills are the best we've seen. At first, our best marksmen couldn't believe he'd pulled off the shots he had."

"Which leads into…"

Phil sighed. "He currently has twelve confirmed hits to his name, suspected of at least fourteen more. Including six high ranking government officials in…" He glanced down at the folder in his lap. "Russia, India, China, and three here in the states. Seems to have issues with bureaucrats."

"Well, that makes me like him a bit better, I suppose. How 'bout his psych evals?"

As Phil opened his mouth to respond, there was a crisp, sharp knock on the door, and without waiting for a response, it swung open, revealing four armed guards, and the man they'd come to see.

Phil had to admit, he was almost a little disappointed. The… well, boy is what he looked like, was nothing unique. Nothing stood out about him. Dirty blond hair that hung over into his face a bit, a bit shorter than average, with broad shoulders, and the well-defined prison muscles wouldn't have separated him from any of the other inmates.

But his cold blue eyes were filled with more violence than men twice his age, Phil thought idly, watching the guards attach the shackles to the table. At their questioning glance, Phil nodded, waving towards the door.

"Thank you, gentlemen. We can take it from here."

One of the guards stepped forward. "Firstly sir, we must reiterate the rules. No physical contact with the prisoner; do not hand him anything, including pens, pencils, or paper. His chains are not to be removed except by myself, or the warden. Do you understand, and agree, to these rules?"

Fury glared, and started to speak, when Phil cut him off quickly. "Of course, gentlemen. No problem. We'll call when we're finished."

With that, the guards left, and Phil scooted his chair closer to the table.

"Clint Barton?"

The young man nodded lazily, bringing his hand up to his face to wipe off a bit of blood by the side of his lip. "That'd be me."

"What happened?"

Barton shrugged. "Man got too close. I made sure he won't make that mistake again. What do you and chuckles over there want?"

Phil smiled pleasantly. "My name is Phil Coulson, and this is Director Fury. We work for an organization called –"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Yeah. I've heard of you before. Almost got me in Beirut back in '89."

"And in Tehran the year before that," Phil said amiably, a small smile on his face.

Barton leaned forward, that cocksure grin still on his face. "You were nowhere _near_ me in Tehran. I knew exactly where your agents were. Which, for the most part involved them stumbling around the market trying to blend in. Next time, don't try to pass a Korean as an Arab wearing a burkha." Leaning back, he shrugged again. "Hell, I was half drunk most of that op, and your guys still couldn't get close. It was a little insulting, to tell you the truth."

"We were still testing the waters, so to speak. You'd just blipped on our radar, and we only sent a grade D team after you. But we rectified that in Beirut. How did you survive that fall, by the way?"

"Trade secret. If it makes you feel any better, I ended up with seven different pins, three in my arm, and four in my leg."

"I'll be sure to let Agents May and Kowalski know. They'll appreciate that you didn't get away unscathed."

"I'm sure they will. The chick there… she was good. Her fighting style will always lose against mine, but it was close. I'll give her that much. So. You here to finish what you started there? Angry that the CIA got me first?"

Phil shook his head. "Of course not. As professional courtesy though… just how the hell did a bunch of untrained, bumbling monkeys like the CIA get you?"

Barton chuckled. "Sheer numbers. I was camping out in a cabin in Virginia. Caught me while I was sleeping, surrounded me with thirty six men, twelve riot dogs, and a helicopter."

"Still… seems sloppy for you," Phil said, trying to keep his voice neutral as he watched the look of interest on the director's face as the large man moved to the side of the table, in what must have been just inside Barton's peripheral vision. "That can't look good on your resume."

"You can't hear me, can you, Barton?" Fury asked in slightly lower than normal voice. "You little _shit_, you're deaf, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well, my resume will be greatly improved once I escape the inescapable Attica."

"Amazing. All that work. Evading our best agents, and some of the best killers in the damn world… And you're deaf as a post," Fury muttered, motioning for Phil to keep talking.

"What're you doing, chuckles?" Barton asked suddenly, turning his head to put Fury directly in his line of sight. "What's the hand signs for?"

"Proving somethin'," Fury said, giving the young man a grin of his own before sliding down into the extra chair, and pulling it closer to Barton. "So how'd you do it? Becoming one of the best marksmen in the world… Developing a name for yourself at nineteen as a trained killer… All while deaf as a doornail?"

Barton froze, the smile sliding off his face as Fury continued speaking.

"Probably hearing aids. Maybe pay a doc to give you better than the average. Not like you didn't have the money for it. You made, what… A mil and a half for that job in Moscow? Wouldn't have been hard. But you gotta take the aids out sometime. That's how they got you. You took 'em out, figuring you were safe in your backwater little cabin. Didn't even hear half the freakin' army knockin' on your front door. What's it at… sixty percent loss?"

"Eighty," Barton said through gritted teeth. "What gave it away?"

"Your story, for one. You were either drunk, high, or deaf to have missed that many CIA assholes marchin' along. Ruled out drugs fairly quickly, you're too sharp for that. Drunk was a possibility, but you just kept starin' at Coulson's face. Plus, I read your history here. A lot of these guards noted that you ignore 'em when they talk to you. Other ones seem to not have had any problem. Granted, you could have just been a stubborn little shit, but add it altogether…"

"Congratulations, Chuckles. Get to the fuckin' point, or get out."

Phil studied the young man intently. Gone was the devil-may-care attitude of before. This new man sitting across from him radiated violence, ready to be unleashed. He was taut as a bow string, seemingly ready to snap.

"We want to offer you a job, Mr. Barton," Phil said quickly, careful not to change his tone in any way as the young man looked back at him. No reason to add insult to injury.

"Don't call me that. It's Barton. Period. And why the fuck would you offer me a damn job?" He demanded, putting his fists on the table.

"Because. You're good. Possibly one of the best."

Barton scoffed, waving his hand in the air dismissively. "So's a lot of people. People who aren't servin' time on death row."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has resources ninety-nine percent of other agencies don't have, Barton. So we were able to dig a little deeper. As soon as you escaped Beirut, I started building a file on you. Everything I could find –which wasn't much, by the way. Your hacker must be good; couldn't find any trace of 'Clinton Barton' in the system. So everything I had came from your assassin days. And what I found there, when I dug below the surface… Well, it piqued my interest.

"You've been offered good money to perform a lot of jobs. You turn down most of them. At first, I couldn't see the pattern. You've worked for the good guys, done some freelancing, and worked for the not-so-good guys. So whatever was drawing you in, it wasn't money, and it wasn't principles like working for scum bags. So I started digging into your targets a bit more. And finally… I found what I was looking for.

"That priest in the Ukraine was what tipped me off. After doing a little research into what was going on at the same period, I found that over twenty five kidnapped children had magically returned home within a few weeks of the murder. All they knew was that the cages they were being held in were unlocked, and a path of dead bodies were pointing them towards the exit. I had to actually go to Ukraine to connect everything. The good Father was the last person anyone would have suspected. Outstanding citizen, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, giving alms to the poor… The man traveled the country helping out those in need.

"I used some facial recognition software on the pictures of the kids. You don't wanna know how much… _filth_… I had to wade through until I finally noticed it. It was the one with the little red-haired girl. Couldn't have been much older than six. Maybe seven."

"She was eight," Barton said roughly, staring down at the table for a moment. "Small for her age. Her name was Vasylnya."

"That video though… That was when I noticed something interesting. The man in the video with her… He had a surgical scar on his right hip. Old, not very well stitched. So I pulled up the autopsy photos of the priest. He had the exact same scar, in the exact same area.

"Once I knew what I was looking for, it all fell into place fairly quickly. Every single person on your credit was involved in some nasty stuff. Kiddie porn, genocide, rape, torture… Like I said, none of it was obvious… Everything was ten layers below the surface."

"Figured I'd leave the obvious ones to you assholes," Barton said roughly. "So what's the conditions?"

Director Fury leaned forward on the table, waiting patiently until Barton looked at him again. "Simple. For the six months, you wear a monitoring chip; you don't ever leave S.H.I.E.L.D. grounds. You undergo eight weeks of physical, and psychological testing, along with some scholastic tests. You pass everything, you start your training. As soon as your training is complete –with passing marks from your handler, and myself –and you become a certified agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. We start sending you out on ops. You don't give us a reason to doubt you, and after a year, we remove the chip. Your record gets wiped clean, and Clinton Barton gets to exist again."

"What're the ops?"

"Nothing you'd be opposed to. We handle some very nasty people that the law can't touch. Some of them haven't become major threats… yet. But they will. I will promise you this much: you will never be given orders to kill innocent civilians. Sound fair?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Alrighty so... Next chapter. Again, if you like, please review. Thanks to OkieDokieLoki, chills10124, and lederra for reviewing, thanks to those who added it to their respective lists. This chapter has some more feels to it (and I apologize for the distressing lack of feels in the first chapter, but hey... it can't all be non-stop hurt/comfort). Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.

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><p>"So how's it feel to be a free man again, Barton?" Phil asked conversationally, putting the black SUV into 'drive' and pulling away from the Attica pick-up point.<p>

Barton shrugged, but Phil didn't miss the way his hands rubbed almost absently at his wrists. "Wouldn't have taken me much longer and I wouldda been a free man anyways. So… What do I call you? _Very_ _Special_ Agent Coulson?"

"Phil. You can call me Phil."

"Alright… Phil. Where we headed?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. The Triskelion in D.C."

Barton glanced at the clock on the dash, which read 9:36 PM. "So we got… what, a six hour drive?"

"There abouts. On another subject, I've requested to be your field handler. Any issues with that?"

Barton shrugged again, stretching out in the seat, wrapping his arms behind the headrest. "Doesn't much matter."

"Good. That means we can start your psych eval while we're driving."

Barton groaned, closing his eyes as he put his feet up on the dash. "If I promise not to kill any agents, can that qualify as the eval?"

"No. Where'd you grow up? And no lying, please. I have to verify everything that you tell me."

Barton sighed. "A little town in Iowa. Waverly. Shitty little town."

"So are you actually Clint Barton?"

"Clinton James Barton. Born January 7th, 1971 at Saint Agnes Regional Hospital to Harold and Edith Barton."

"Your parents still around?"

"No." The answer was short, and terse.

"My sympathies. How'd they pass?"

"Drunk driving accident. And you can keep your sympathies."

"Any siblings?" Phil asked quickly, trying to move on from what was clearly a touchy subject.

"One. He's dead too."

"Oh. Was he in the car with them?"

"No. He died. The incursion into the Gulf before the war."

"Older then?"

"Yeah. Three years."

"How old were you when your parents passed?" Phil asked, careful to keep his face tilted towards the passenger seat.

"Six. Find something else to ask about."

Phil decided to honor the man's demand, given the slight twitching of his hands. "Alright. How'd you get involved in this type of work?"

"I lived with carneys for a while. The guy who… mentored me… He worked for a criminal organization."

"Hmm hm."

" 'Hmm hm' what?"

"What organization? How'd you get involved with it? What happened to your mentor? What was his name?"

Barton grunted a bit, putting his feet down. "It was an off shoot of the Italian Mob. His name was Trick Shot. We uh… I… He… made… me –"He grunted out the words "-help him for a few years."

"And what happened to him?"

"I killed him. Took his contacts."

"How old were you?" Phil asked softly.

"Fourteen. I committed a few jobs before I let people know it was me. They didn't care how old I was as long as I could do the job."

"Clint… Can I call you Clint?" At the man's small nod, Phil smiled. "Clint, I want you to know that I'm not doing this to torment you. But with this kind of work… Well, probably ninety percent of our field agents have triggers. We need to know what they are so we can avoid putting you in potentially damaging situations. I want you to trust me."

"Trust S.H.I.E.L.D. you mean," Clint muttered.

"I could give a damn if you trust S.H.I.E.L.D.," Phil said forcefully. At the surprised look in the young man's eyes, Phil continued, "You trusting S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't matter. I need you to trust me. I'm your handler. I need you to know that everything I do is for your benefit. That I won't send you into a situation you can't handle. If we can't grow to trust each other, this will never work. So if to trust me, you have to distrust S.H.I.E.L.D., I can deal with that. I can work with you hating S.H.I.E.L.D. if need be."

He expected some attitude. Maybe a sarcastic comment. He wasn't prepared for the silence that followed, as Clint stared out the window morosely.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"Well, we've got eight weeks to try. But for right now, let's talk about some of your triggers. Are there any undercover roles you won't do?" At the dismissive look in Clint's eyes, Phil turned his head to look directly at the young man for a moment. "I understand that you can 'do anything', but is there anything that will make you significantly uncomfortable?"

Clint hesitated for a moment, shrugging almost unsurely. "I uh… I don't particularly like… Roles where I have to be… be like the priest."

Phil smiled gently. "Alright. That's a good start. Any environments you're not comfortable with?"

"I'm not overly fond of the cold but I can handle it. I just uh… I have to keep bundled up or…" He glanced at his hands. "My fingers ache if they get too cold. And you don't want me anywhere in public without a long-sleeve shirt and jeans."

"Can I ask why?"

After a few moments of hesitation, Clint pulled up one sleeve, revealing an arm covered in more scars than Phil had ever seen on a human arm. There was a long ropey scare that seemed to begin from somewhere under his elbow, and ran down stopping just short of his wrist, short ones scattered all over, with an assortment of various sized round burns.

"This arm's the worst, but uh… I got a lot of those pretty much everywhere," Clint said quietly, a bit of shame in his voice.

"Those look pretty old," Phil said conversationally, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Yeah."

Phil waited for more, but when none was forthcoming, he nodded. "Why don't you get some sleep? We got a long ride, and I think we've made a good start."

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><p>"Clint? Clint, we're here," Phil said quietly, as he shut the car off in the S.H.I.E.L.D. parking lot. The young man didn't respond, and Phil silently cursed himself for not having planned ahead to have hearing aids for the young man. He reached over, and gently shook Clint's shoulder.<p>

Instantly, the young man's eyes flew open, his hand coming up in a fist, throwing a punch that nearly caught Phil in the jaw.

"Hey, hey. Easy! It's just me," Phil said, keeping his voice soft, but commanding.

Breathing heavily, Clint's eyes slowly came into focus, and he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry."

"We're here. C'mon. I'll show you to your room, and in the morning we'll take you down to get your physical exam, and microchip."

Still looking half-asleep, Clint nodded, getting out of the car on unsteady legs, and following Clint.

After taking him through the various checkpoints, down the elevator, a few more sets of stairs, and down a few hallways to the bunk areas.

He glanced down at his PDA, checking the room number again, before stopping in front of C223. Pointing to the small keypad, he looked back at Clint.

"You need to come up with a six digit number. Put it in, and it'll be your passcode to access this room. You, and only you, will be able to access it. We can only access it in cases of emergency. Put it in, and hit enter."

Nodding unsurely, Clint stepped up to the pad, and –shielding Phil's view with his body –inserted a code. The door popped open, and the two men stepped inside.

"It's not much… After your year is up, you're allowed to get a home off site. But you are allowed to change things around. This room is yours; as long as you don't break through anyone's walls, you can do with it as you will. If you make me a list, I can get you anything you want for furnishing, or if you want, after your exam tomorrow, you and I can head out and you can pick some things up," Phil said as Clint glanced around the room.

Clint turned to face him again, looking at him quizzically. Inwardly cussing again, Phil repeated himself, and Clint shrugged. "It's got a bed, a bathroom, a desk, and a shelf. Don't need much more than that."

"You sure? I can pick something up. Not a problem."

"Uh… Nah. I'm good."

"Well… alright then. I'll be back at oh eight hundred. Alright?"

"Yeah. That works."

"Good. And we'll get you fitted with some hearing aids tomorrow as well. Good night, Clint."

"G'night, sir."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's read, or added me/the story to their respective lists, and special thanks to everyone who's reviewed. I love reviews, they give me incentive to keep going. So thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

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><p>The next morning, Phil was at the door at 0755. He knocked softly, and after a moment, the door opened, showing Clint wearing the same clothes as the day before, a pair of ratty jeans, and a black t-shirt.<p>

"Good morning, Clint. How're you feeling?"

Clint shrugged. "Fine. Let's get this over with, huh?"

Phil smiled. "Of course. If you'll follow me." As they started down the hallway, Phil commented, "By the way, if you give me your sizes, I'll get you some more clothes while you're in the exam."

Clint's eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly caught himself. "I uh… I kind of assumed you'd… You'd be doing the exam, right?"

Phil chuckled. "No. I'm not a doctor. I can stay with you if you like. We've got plenty of paper-pushers who can grab your clothes."

Clint shrugged. "That'd uh… that'd work I guess. Large t-shirts, 38x38 jeans."

"Any color preferences?"

"Blue jeans, dark shirts. Don't really care more than that."

Phil nodded as he opened the door to the exam room. "Alright… I'll go get your doctor, if you want to get undressed and jump on the table?" He handed him a small medical sheet. "Cover up with that when you're done."

Clint nodded unsurely, and Phil could see the lump in his throat as the young man swallowed.

"Uh… yeah. Yeah that works."

Phil nodded, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Alright. We'll be back in a few minutes."

As he walked into the small attached room where the doctor was waiting, Phil sighed. While logically he knew that healthy, well-adjusted people with happy backgrounds didn't typically become secret agents, it didn't stop him from hating the human beings who could do that sort of thing to other people.

"Agent Coulson. I hear you finally got another field agent," Doctor Lee said pleasantly.

"Yup. And uh… take it easy. He's skittish."

Lee smiled sadly. "I know. The Director made sure I had the file."

"Good. He should probably be set. Shall we?"

"Oh, you're staying for the exam?"

"Yeah. He… sort of asked me to."

"Fair enough. Let's go."

Phil followed behind as they made their way back into the room. Clint was sitting awkwardly on the exam table, the sheet covering from his thighs halfway up to his belly.

And he'd been right. The scars Phil had seen on his arm _did_ extend all the way over his body. The shame was written all over the young man's face, as his face turned red at the sight of the female doctor.

"Hello there, Agent Barton. My name is Doctor Lee, and I'll be doing your exam today if that's alright with you?" Dr. Lee said with a large smile.

"Uh… Yeah. That's fine."

"Alright. So we're going to start with a visual inspection and exam. After that, we'll get you in for an x-ray, an MRI, and a PET scan. After that, we'll get you set for your hearing aids. So, can you hold your arms out for me please?"

Clint obeyed slowly, and said, "Uh… I've got quite a few metal pins… Probably not a good idea with the MRI."

"Ah. Fair enough," Dr. Lee said idly, running her hands across his arms. "How's your vision?"

"Better than yours."

"Alright. Mind if I ask what caused these?"

Clint looked at Phil desperately. "Do I have to answer that?"

"I'm sorry, Clint, but yes."

He sighed, but nodded. "Um… Most of 'em are uh… Knife wounds. Razor blades. Cigarettes. Cigars. A few are from compound fractures."

Dr. Lee looked up, her face gentle. "Are any of these from self-harm?" She asked softly.

Clint chuckled deprecatingly. "No. Got enough of it handed to me, never felt the need to add any of my own."

"Any pain or tenderness when I press down?" Dr. Lee asked, continuing on, moving her hands down his rib cage.

"No."

"Any physical deformities we should be aware of?"

"No."

"Allergies?"

"No."

"Alright then, we'll get you in for your x-ray, and go from there, okay? Agent Coulson and I will give you a minute to dress. Come on out whenever you're ready."

With that, Dr. Lee left the room, Phil close on her heels.

"What do you think, Doc?" Phil asked as soon as the door was closed.

The smile slowly melted away, revealing a face that said she'd seen far too many things like this before. "Worse than some of I've seen. Better than others, although not many. I suppose we'll see a fair number of broken bones on the x-ray."

"No doubt. Who'd Fury assign for the psych evals?"

Dr. Lee glanced over the medical file for a moment. "Looks like Dr. Halani. He's pretty good. As a backup, we have… Dr. Balcom. She's fairly competent, although… She can be a little rough at times. Ah, Clint. If you wanna follow me this way, we'll get the x-ray out of the way."

It was getting late, Phil noticed idly, as he continued building the new file on Clint Barton. The first of what would be many psych evaluations had arrived by email, about ten minutes before he'd been prepared to leave the office.

So he'd decided to start the building of the file. He'd put in the little bit of information he'd been able to pull together during the day, including the police records on his father.

Reading between the lines, Phil could get a pretty grim picture of early life in the Barton household. The man had averaged a disorderly conduct every few weeks, along with repeated domestic calls to the Barton home at least once a month. Repeated hospital visits for both Edith and Bernard Barton, although Phil had to admire whoever Clint had hack his records; there literally was no mention of Clinton Francis Barton anywhere in official records, although he'd put in a request to Waverly Elementary School, and St. Agnes Regional Hospital to see if they had any hard copies of reports.

The x-rays had confirmed what both Phil and Dr. Lee had expected: at least a dozen old fractures. The PET scan had shown severe damage to both ears, as well as old skull fractures.

With a sigh, he finally glanced down at the psych evaluation. It was amazingly brief; a mere two pages. But upon further inspection, he realized that –boiled down to its essentials –that Dr. Halani had sat talking to a blank slate for two hours. Clint had said absolutely nothing, staring out the window behind the doctor for the entire time.

Putting the papers into the folder, and closing it gently, he rubbed his temples for a few moments, before heading out of the office, and heading towards the dormitories.

He nodded at the few friendly faces he saw as he walked. S.H.I.E.L.D. numbers had been on the rise lately, and there were many new faces that he didn't recognize. The further he went , the fewer and fewer faces he seen that he recognized.

When he arrived at Clint's room –C223 –he entered a code into the keypad that would cause the lights in the room to flicker a few times. After a few seconds, the door opened up, and Clint's face peered around the door. After he seen Phil, he gave him a small smile, and opened the door further.

"Figured you wouldda went home already," Clint said, ushering Phil into the room.

"Paperwork," Phil said with a smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How're you settling in?" He asked pointedly, glancing at the pillow and the sheet on the floor inside the small closet.

Clint shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. "I uh… Guess I'm not used to sleeping on soft beds."

"We can get you a harder mattress if you want. Maybe a hammock or something," Phil said helpfully, motioning towards a chair. When Clint nodded, Phil sat, setting his elbows on his knees. "So how was your first day? Tired?"

Clint chuckled a little, running one hand over the back of his head as he settled himself on the floor Indian-style. "Yeah. Little bit. Not as bad as I thought it would be, I guess."

Phil nodded sagely. "Usually isn't. Our minds have ways of… making things look a lot worse than they actually are. Like… speaking to a therapist, for instance?"

Clint ducked his head, picking absently at threads in the carpet. "I uh… I didn't like him. Guy kept… Kept asking me how I felt 'bout whoever'd gotten me into 'this'," He said disdainfully, making air quotes with his fingers. "How I felt 'bout the people I killed. Hell, guy only took about three minutes to tell me his name, ask me mine, and then he started right in. Didn't even buy me dinner first," He added with a lame attempt at a grin.

Phil nodded. "Alright. We'll switch you over to another doctor. I think it was… Dr. Balcom next on the list. She's a… bit more rough. Or so I hear. She tells you what she thinks, and what she thinks you should think, and doesn't take any lip about it." Phil pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. "Come to think of it… Lot of our agents seem to like her." He smiled as Clint laughed a little at that. "This is good, though."

"What?"

"You talking to me. Letting me know what's going on. We keep this up, and we've got the makings of a good team here, Clint. I think we can work with this."

Clint looked up at him, and for the first time, he had a real smile on his face. For that split second, Phil could see a different man; a different person entirely. The change that came over Clint's face with just a simple smile, made him look… well, almost… happy. Innocent.

But almost as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, and a look of awkwardness came over Clint's face, embarrassed that it had been seen, almost.

"I uh… Honestly thought this would be a lot worse," Clint said quietly, ducking his head. "It's actually kinda nice. Not having to worry 'bout people kicking in my door… Three squares a day –good food too –place to call my own… Haven't had that… long time. Hell, even got a pair of hearing aids outta the mess."

"Yeah, I meant to ask how they were working for you."

"Uh, pretty good, actually. Maybe even better than the ones I had. Fit good… Hearing's amazing. It's a little much to take in, you know?"

Phil settled back in the chair. "No, I'm afraid I don't. Are they not right? We can take them back, get them adjusted if you want."

"Huh? Oh, no, that's uh, not what I meant. It's just… After four months of… Muffled whispers… knowing they were saying something I should probably be listening to but… It was just quiet. So damn quiet. All of the sudden, with the hearing aids back in it's like… almost like an overload. You ever been blindfolded, sir?"

Phil nodded slowly. "Yeah. I've had that misfortune a few times."

"You know how… after staring at black cloth for hours, and… and they would rip it off, and it was just like… sensory overload. All the colors, and lights, and everything all at once? It's a lot like that but… it's more, because… Well, there's so many different sounds. When I went to the mess for dinner after they were put in, it was… So many voices, so many different… sounds. Spoons against dishes, forks against knives, pots banging in the kitchen, boots scraping against the floor, chairs on tile, things clanking against the tables. All of that on top of the voices. A hundred different voices… after four months it's like… it seemed like everyone was yelling, like everyone was being as noisy as they could. I dunno, I'm probably not making any sense but…"

"No, no, I understand… I think. I mean, I don't think I could fully comprehend it, but I understand what you're saying. But here… Where there's no so much noise… they working alright?"

"Yeah. I didn't mean to sound like… I appreciate it all. All of this, I mean."

Phil smiled back. "Our pleasure, Clint. So. Tomorrow… We'll get you in with Dr. Balcom, take you back for your physical results, and a few more tests –including your eyesight –and then if the range is open, we'll do some shooting. See how your test scores come back. After that, we'll do some scholastic tests. Sound okay to you?"

"I uh… I haven't been to school since eighth grade. So… I hope that's not a qualifier."

"Eh… qualifier no, mandatory, yes," Phil said with a laugh. "We'll figure out where you excel, and where you're behind, and we'll give you a crash course. Get you up to speed. I saw the scores from the IQ test the prison gave you. 142?"

"Yeah, I uh… They told me that, sir, but… Didn't really mean anything. I remember back in uh… kindergarten? Maybe first grade. But I had a test. The school told my parents I was… 'brilliant, but lacks motivation'. Never went any further than that."

Phil smiled softly. "Well, Clint, it means that you're into the superior range. Basically, anything below 85 is below average, or mentally slow. 85 to 115 is average. 115 to 140 is above average, and everything above that is superior. Which is where you fall. Means you are in the top fifteen percent of the nation's intelligence bracket."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Alright, so... firstly, special shout-outs to everyone who's reviewed, with a special shout-out to sass-mistress-lucifer. Also thanks to those who added it to their respective lists. Also: Yes, I know Clint's middle name is Francis... I thought I had corrected it, apparently I haven't yet... I promise, I will get to it at some point... But I am aware of the mistake lol.

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><p>Clint was organizing the books he'd grabbed from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s library when he heard the heavy knock on the door. Setting down the rest of the books down, he opened the door, a grin coming to his face when he seen Phil standing there, a brown Chinese food bag in hand.<p>

"You like Chinese?" Phil asked with a smile, holding the bag up.

"Yeah. C'mon in," Clint said, holding the door open. "Was just finishing putting my books away."

"Oh, speaking of… I've got your test results back. From the scholastic, weaponry, and vision," Phil said, setting the food down on the small table, and pulling the white containers out. "I didn't know what you liked so I got… General Tsao's, Beef Chow Mein, Chicken and Broccoli, all with pork fried rice."

Clint sat down, eyeing the food eagerly. "Not really picky, sir. Been a long time since I've had Chinese."

Phil chuckled, passing over the Beef Chow Mein, and a container of pork fried rice. "So which results you want first?"

Clint nearly choked on a particularly large bit of Chow Mein. "Uh… I don't care. Take your pick."

Phil shrugged as he opened up the container of General Tsao's. "Well… Your vision was better than anything we've seen here at S.H.I.E.L.D. And let me say, we've seen the best. Your score literally places you between a hawk and an eagle."

Clint chuckled a bit, before frowning abashedly as a few grains of rice fell from his mouth. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. What's so funny?"

"It's just uh… Back with Carson's carnival, I uh… I had my own act for a while, and they… they billed me as 'The Amazing Hawkeye'. Just… kinda funny, I suppose."

Phil thought for a moment, before nodding with a smile. "Interesting. So I guess we'll have your field name then."

"No." The answer was sharp, flying out of Clint's lips almost before he knew what was happening. "I mean… No, sir. If that's alright sir. I'd rather not."

Phil looked at him funny, but nodded. "Alright. We've got a little less than eight weeks to figure it out. How'd your appointment with Dr. Balcom go?"

Clint gave him a wry grin. "Nice segue, sir. But it went good. I like her. She uh… She doesn't beat around the bush."

"That's what I hear. Your range scores topped out… But I'd like to take you out to the Blocks tomorrow. The range doesn't really offer a good indicator of your skill."

Clint looked up at him curiously. "The Blocks?"

"Yeah. It's a four square block radius city we made. Complete with dummies set up. We use to for practice ops. Takes up about a half mile. You feel up for it?"

"Yeah. Of course, sir. Honestly, the range wasn't a challenge. I'd enjoy getting some good practice in," Clint said with a grin, setting the empty box down. "So. You lead with the good news… How bad was the school test?"

Phil grimaced. "Well… There's some more good news… and some… 'eh' news."

Clint chuckled. "Alright. So what's the good news?"

"Well… For someone with an eighth grade education, you managed to pass your algebra, trig, and calculus with flying colors."

"Uh… not sure what that is, but… great?"

Phil looked at him, and for a moment, Clint felt the overwhelming desire to laugh at the look on Phil's face, equal parts shock and disbelief.

"Um… yeah, that's… that's actually amazing. Calculus and trigonometry are advanced mathematics," Phil said slowly. "We're talking complicated processes."

Clint shrugged uncomfortably. "I've always been good with math, sir. It's always come easy for me."

"Yeah… Ok. So um… Your science skills were middling –biology was a fail, but you managed to barely pass chemistry. History was… Well, I won't lie, Clint, it was… pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Well.. you got about twenty percent right," Phil said apologetically. "Your language skills were good. Out of three levels, you had…" He glanced down at the paperwork, "threes in Russian, French, and Spanish; twos in Afrikaans, Arabic, and Chinese; and ones in Hindi, Italians, and Portuguese. Three is native speaker, two is fluent, one is passable. Which is… actually pretty impressive. We've got agents of twenty years who aren't don't speak more than two languages fluently."

Clint shrugged, eyeing the chicken and broccoli. At Phil's nod, Clint grabbed the container. "I uh… Always had a knack for languages. Although that might have had something to do with culture-crash. You're on a job, you wanna eat, you learn to pick up the local languages pretty quick. And there were a lot of Russians and French in the carnival," He said between bites of food.

"Speaking of the carnival… I managed to track down some more of your personal records. Got faxes from the hospital where you were born, the school at Waverly… And I also managed to track down Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders."

Clint felt a wave of homesickness run through him, quickly followed by a wave of nausea at the thought of his last night at the carnival.

Phil must have noticed the look on his face. "You want me to keep going, or…?"

"Nah. I'm good. How's Old Man Carson?" He forced out, shoveling more food into his mouth.

"Good. He actually remembers you. Said he's going to send me one of your flyers. And his daughter… Marcella? She seemed quite excited to learn you were doing well."

Clint chuckled. "I assume you didn't tell her the whole 'hit-man, sent to jail, working for the super-secret spy organization' thing?"

Phil smiled. "Uh, no, I didn't. I just told her I was a friend helping you out; that I'd gotten you a job working with me."

"Uh huh. Doing… what, exactly?"

"Weapons testing for a private contractor."

"And she bought that?"

"Oh, yes," Phil said with a smile. "Seemed excited about it, actually. She said to make sure I told you hi, and you should come back and visit. That she misses you."

Clint smiled sadly, as his appetite vanished, shoving the food away. "Yeah. That sounds like Marcy. She was a good kid."

"Kid?" Phil asked with raised eyebrows. "She didn't seem much younger than you."

"Two years younger. Although… her world? She might as well have been a baby. Girl was _brilliant_ at catching pickpockets, and short-changers, but when it came to life outside the carnival… She was as naïve as a nun."

There was a few minutes of silence, while the two men stared at the table, before Phil cleared his throat. "You… wanna talk about it?"

Clint shrugged uncomfortably. "Not much to talk about. I was ten, she was eight… I was the only person her age, so we… we bonded. I think she…" He chuckled a bit, "I think she thought of me as her stray puppy sometimes. We uh… When Barney and I joined, we… we were… outsiders. Other than Carson and Marcy, everyone there was… well, an odd duck, you know? Carnies don't necessarily fit the definition of 'normal'. So everyone else there was either an oddity, or an outcast. Then Barney and I show up, two normal kids… So there was a lot of uh… suspicion.

"Barney did a bit better than I did. He was thirteen… Big for his age. He made himself useful, got close with some of the others. But me… I was small… Mostly deaf. Wasn't much for me to do. So I was always the last one to eat, first one to get picked on… Marcy took me in. At night, while Carson would be getting everything ready for the next day, she'd sneak me into their trailer, make sure I got a shower, hot meal… Sometimes, when she knew her dad would be late, she'd let me get a few hours of sleep on her bed."

"Where was your brother during all this?"

Clint scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. "Barney was… Well, he was thirteen, you know? Teenager, been dragging around his little brother, protecting him, watching out for him for four years… Once we were at the carnival, he just… he enjoyed his freedom, I guess. Didn't want me hanging around his neck anymore."


End file.
